It was a first, for me, to see a group of male Clericals wearing their
dinner jackets and black bow ties. Their outstanding elegance was only betrayed by their
lack of trousers, which, in my opinion, belittled their credibility and supported the view
that they were all drunk.
This was Flag Cracker's 10th Annual Weekend of Dance in Yorkshire, well attended by about 30 teams, and well irrigated by intermittant rain. The Clericals had turned out in force and the impenetrable square of their tents was guaranteed to fight off any attack by the Fuzzy Wuzzies. It did not, however, prevent to local kids from knicking our flags.
Unfortunately, although the evening was billed for "Evening Dress", it did not completely prevent the usual folky hippy low-lifes from attending :- men in dinner jackets and open-toed sandals, women wearing hand-knitted sweaters over their ball gowns - all had beards.
My face was still smarting from the slap that I received from Janet Dowling when I tried to snog her. That girl's got above herself since she became the Emperor of the Fed. "I've had her" twinkled H, looking a real dandy in his silk waistcoat; still a great bird-puller in spite of his smell.
The building was heaving with Morris professionals. I had just been attending a small fringe meeting on Morris and explosives. George Speller, who must be over 100 years old, was recounting how he would ignite the Sodium Flouride whilst singing G-L-O-R-I-AAAAAAAA, this is an annual speech of his which lasts 8 minutes 20 seconds, or 7 minutes 30 seconds if he has his teeth in. This was an ideal opportunity for H and I to promenade to the bar, as we had heard it many times before, and do not approve of non-plastic pyrotechnics.
It
was on this errand that I got my face slapped, H got off with an entire Ladies Clog team,
and we came across the group of Clericals.
"So we enter the Jig Competition, and dance last" said Scuds, the Clerical Dragonmeister. H and I looked at each other in shock. "Look" I said rather indelicately, "Clerical Error are a Border team and don't do any jigs. There's some ace Cotswold teams here, and we've seen some already practising for this event."
Tesco, with eyelids half open, said "Bob's going to do it!" He smirked, then fell over.
Now, I've got nothing against Bob, especially as he is bigger than me, but he's a musician, not a dancer!
The group just snickered. "Not only is he going to enter" they enthused, "but he is going to win!" Not only were they drunk, but they were going to humiliate the team in front of their peers.
Sunday morning arrived, as did the hangovers. As the drugs, alcohol and curry started to wear off, I wondered why H and I were laying on the floor of the portable toilet, H asleep with his head down the can, still wearing formal attire, Just then some fully-kitted Clericals passed by with their arms around the fully-kitted Bob, on their way to the Jig Competition.
"Oh no!" I thought as the full horror of last night's conversation hit me. "Hey, this mirror smells!" said H.
We followed, at a distance, so that we could claim not to know them, whilst nearby a cock crowed thrice.
They arrived at the arena just as the last performer was capering herself to a graceful climax. There followed polite applause. Now it was the final act - Clerical Error. H watched in embarrassment with his paws over his eyes. I just winced. Mind you, I hadn't managed to open my eyes fully yet today.
Firstly,
Glyn came on with a chair in his hand, and, with great aplomb, placed it in position and
proudly gave it a dusting. He then walked off. The crowd was silent, well except for
George Speller's novelty flatulence, appreciated best by a quiet down-wind audience.
Now, Bob proudly entered the arena, and to everyone's suprise, in fact a little gasp, he pulled out his little man. I had seen him do this before, but never in public, and never sober. Measuring an impressive 14 inches, he proceeded to strap it to his leg.
It was a complete wooden miniature dancer in Clerical Error kit. He connected it to a board which he placed under his foot. With penny whistle in his hand, he proceeded to play.
Bob played. His foot tapped. The little man danced. The crowd cheered. Clerical Error won.
He was awarded a plaque by Flag Crackers, which will be placed in the Clerical Error Trophy Cabinet, if they ever build one.
Flag Crackers of Craven - 1998 - Solo Jig
The Clericals carried Bob on their shoulders, back to their camp.
As if it were a signal for the crowd to disperse, the was a small puff of white smoke, followed by a pungent though amusing body odour, followed by a croaky voice singing the letters G-L-O-R-I-AAAAA......